From the 'Antique Square'
I looked apprehensively at what lay in my lap, ready to pack it back up again and refuse invading other people’s secrets. But my eye got caught on a piece of white cardboard in the midst of it -- cardboard of exceptionally good quality, unworn, it seemed, absolutely as if it had been put into the folder the previous morning. Wondering if perhaps this was something dropped off recently and not so terrible after all, I timidly took the card up for a better look.
There is magic in any photograph, but doubly the amount of magic in a photograph taken one century ago. The way the person looks at you from the glistening surface is the way she had been looking at the photographer somewhere far away, in an era separated from you by time, distance and war. But the face has been preserved, together with its expression, its personality, and the story behind it. One can only guess as to what that story is. But at least with the instant frozen thus and captured on paper, one knows that the story exists.
This was the photograph of a girl, or rather a young woman, standing sideways at a table with the upper part of her body turned gracefully towards the photographer. From her shoulders to her waist and again from her waist to the floor cascaded folds of gauzy silk, embroidered along the seams and trailing behind her a little like a wedding dress. In the bare hand was a long-stemmed flower, and on her wrists and neck lay strings of pearls. Her hair was put up loosely so that it seemed to pull her head back with its weight; just above the left ear was a small shell comb. And her face -- her face was unforgettable. Perfectly photographed, perfectly molded by God, it was a smiling, bright, beautiful face with a narrow aristocratic nose, a wide forehead, fine brows, a prim, smiling little mouth and a pair of laughing eyes. She seemed to move, to whisper something from her still stage, her very pose suggesting life and vigor, as though she was about to snatch up her skirts and run through the next moment. One could almost hear her voice, see her little foot on the black-and-white carpet, smell the wafting perfume about her and the laughter that danced in the air. At the back, the delicate beads of what
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